


I Swear To You

by tangofox



Series: Christmas Fics [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, Fluff, Hospitals, Pre-Amis, Substance Abuse, Talks of Sucide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-16
Updated: 2013-12-16
Packaged: 2018-01-04 21:18:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1085794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tangofox/pseuds/tangofox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christmas fic for Helena</p>
<p>Grantaire and Jehan are co-dependant best friends battling addiction problems and depression together</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Swear To You

“You've been taking stuff again.”

The voice is hard and deep, and enough to stir Jehan up out of his woozy slumber. He was laid out on their shared bed, the covers tossed somewhere on the floor. The declaration stung in his ears, and even in this state Jehan could feel guilt sticking in his belly. He was naked though he was sure he didn’t remember taking his clothes off, damp hair sticking to his forehead, his eyes glazed over when he opened them. A part of him was surprised to see Grantaire fuming above him, though he didn't know why, it wasn't as if anyone else would be in their tiny shared flat. He attempts to sit up and fails, only to find Grantaire's harsh fingers wrapping around his upper arm, hauling him up to sit. He absent-mindedly wonders if it will cause a bruise. If he will look down for the next few days and see Grantaire's unforgiving marks on his skin. 

His face stings enough to bring him out of his daydreams. It's not until he presses his own hand against his cheek that he realises Grantaire slapped him. He understands why, but it doesn't make it hurt any less. It wasn't like the bullies in the playground, nor like his abusive father. It was the only person in the world he trusted, striking him. It's a cold reminder to Jehan about how bad he felt about life right now. Every inch of his body was screaming out for attention, for help. The honeymoon period in Paris had worn off. The city was cold and didn't love him back any longer.

“Jehan talk to me,” The deep voice pleads, and Jehan thinks he can hear guilt, remorse. Perhaps Grantaire regrets hitting him, even if it had been the only thing to bring him back to his senses. Jehan just feels mournful that he can feel things again.

“Go and run me a bath,” Jehan orders, his voice sounds small, but so bitter, as if Jehan had just realised it was him against the world. Grantaire goes off without hesitation, like a dog, Jehan thinks, so eager to please when he had done wrong. He regrets those thoughts immediately. Grantaire was a human, the only human who cared about him. It was too much, it was suffocating, it was blinding. Jehan didn't want to feel his love. In fact, he didn't want to feel anything at all.

When he feels Grantaire's arms wrap under his own and haul him up to stand, he offers no protest, just slumps against him. He's so undernourished, Grantaire can tell that standing for him is effort. Both of them wonder how it got this bad, how Paris could have failed them so much. Jehan knows that every time Grantaire and him fight, every time he is a mess, Grantaire finds solace in the bottom of a bottle. It had been a long time since either of them had called out the other on their destructive behaviour.

Jehan lets Grantaire help him into the bathtub, expressive eyes watching him, narrowing a little when he sees Grantaire kneel on the bathroom floor, when he realises he's not leaving.

“I can bathe myself,” Jehan tells him, hands balling into fists.

“No you can't,” Grantaire answers, and Jehan shivers at how sad and broken he sounds. Grantaire reaches out to tuck his hair behind his ear, fingers ghosting over his stinging cheek. “You're going to bruise aren't you. Fuck why does your skin have to be so sensitive.”

“I think that’s called victim blaming,” Jehan retorts, regretting it already. He had so many drugs in his system he didn't even know how to filter his words. He didn't want to say that to Grantaire. He wasn't a victim. It wasn't as if Grantaire had hurt him before, or had really even hurt him now. He shouldn't punish him for that. He shouldn't be that disgusting. He reaches out to grab Grantaire's hand in an attempt to comfort him. But it doesn't work. Because Grantaire's seen the track marks, and he's running his trembling fingers over them.

“Jesus fucking Christ Jehan,” He mumbles, pressing against his skin. “Not heroin. You wouldn't....anything but heroin.”

Jehan feels so consumed by guilt, feels it wrapping around his skin like tar, sticking to him, dragging him down. He wished he could just slide his body down into the bathtub, wishes he could just drown. 

“Would you kill me if I asked you to?” Jehan asks him, his voice loud and unflinching

“Yes,” Grantaire replies without hesitation

“Would you drive a knife through my heart?”

“If it was the only thing in the world that would make you happy.” He tells him, nodding slowly.

Jehan lets himself slide down the tub, considering his words. How heavy his heart felt, like a ball of lead in his chest, keeping him down in the flames, refusing to ever let him rise. Grantaire still clutched his arm, his fingers still pressed against the track marks tainting his pale skin. 

“Then do it, because I can't....I can't anymore Grantaire,” He whispers, full of pain and anguish, because the world was too harsh, not beautiful enough for Jehan Prouvaire. It twisted him and corrupted him, sucked all the happiness from his soul. 

Grantaire watched him with conflicted eyes. Jehan knew he was being cruel, playing on the fact he knew what he meant to Grantaire, he knew his friend found it hard to resist any of his demands. Even this one.

“How about you do something for me first angel,” Grantaire starts, fingers trailing up his forearm before they settle on his palm, tracing a pattern Jehan couldn't quite work out. “Try one thing for me. I have...fuck you're going to hate me but I know a hospital, just out of the city. Just go there, stay a little while, for me Jehan. If it doesn't work, I swear to god I will help you die, I swear it.”

Jehan wasn't sure what enticed him more, the sound of desperation in Grantaire's voice, or the promise of an end. The idea that someone might be able to fix him sounded ridiculous, when his life was such a mess. But their horribly co-dependant friendship worked both ways. Jehan didn't really know how to deny Grantaire of something either. The nod comes mechanically, the agreement isn't forced but it isn't welcomed.

 

It happens in a blur. Signing the papers, feeling Grantaire's fingers slip through his as he goes through the hospital doors. At first it's unbearable. Even sleeping alone is painful, without Grantaire's leg thrown over his, without the mans drunken snoring. He started to withdraw, and it got worse. He refused to see Grantaire for a month. When he did see him next, Grantaire turned up to their visit session drunk. New conditions were drawn up, and Jehan demands that if he has to try, Grantaire has to as well, he has to kick the booze. Both are reluctant and angry with each other. Six months pass. Six whole months of Jehan sleeping alone in white walls, with pushy therapists. There's one who's helpful, who from the beginning had been supportive. When Grantaire comes to visit next, it's supposed to be his last.

They sit out on a bench together, the sun is warm, and Jehans wearing lavender pyjamas, a gift that Grantaire had brought for him last month. All his gifts had to be carefully checked to make sure they weren't dangerous, and Grantaire had gone out of his way to find a pair that would make Jehan warm and comfortable. He wasn't as skinny anymore, and they didn't hang off him. Grantaire recalled he looked this beautiful when they first arrived in Paris. 

Jehan laces their fingers together because it's always been comforting, smiling at Grantaire. A genuine smile. “The Doctor is supposed to be signing my release forms on Thursday,” Jehan tells him, laughing at how much Grantaire's face lights up.

“Do you know how fucking happy that makes me Jehan, Jesus,” He laughs, running a hand through his hair. It's a strange sight, how steady his hands are. Jehan appreciates how tough this must have been for Grantaire too. He hadn't been the only one hurting. 

“We're going to clean up our apartment. No fuck...we're going to move out. Get a place in a nicer part of the city. We still have my parents credit card, we don't have to live like this.”

“I cleaned up, I bought a new bed,” Grantaire grins, proud of himself for trying, proud of both of them.

“I'm going to enrol in college, if I can,” Jehan tells him, squeezing his hand. “If they have entry exams or something I know I can ace them. Or I will just yell in mixed Arabic and Latin until I get a place.”

“What will you take?” Grantaire asks him, his own eyes lighting up. They had both assigned themselves to the fact they would amount to nothing when life had gone downhill. But now the sun was shining, and things were finally looking good.

“Maybe English, I mean probably Poetry, if they offer that,” Jehan says with a shrug. “Will you take art?” He asks him. It's not a question of will he go to college or not. Jehan wants them to do this together, and if he was trying at this venture, he wouldn't let Grantaire just sit on the side and waste his talent.

“I'll take art,” He agrees with a nod, before leaning over, pressing a kiss to Jehan's cheek. It's scratchy and he likes it, and before Grantaire can move, Jehan jumps in his lap and wraps his arms around his neck, clinging on for dear life. “You're the best friend anyone could ever ask for Grantaire, I wish I didn't take your for granted,” He murmurs, pressing their foreheads together.

Grantaire goes to speak, to protest, but Jehan shushes him with his fingers pressed against Grantaire's lips. They're not going to argue. Not today. Jehan gets himself more comfortable in Grantaire's lap, pointing to a flowerbed near them, telling him about the flowers with laughter in his voice, with a smile on his face. This didn't mean everything would be okay with them, not at all. But it meant they were trying, and they were trying hard. And that’s all they could ever really do.


End file.
